


All (not) according to plan

by Lightning070



Series: Tales of two Space Warriors and their Green Womprat [4]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: A Clan of Three, Adorable Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV), Arguing, Becoming a family, Din Djarin Removes the Helmet, Din Djarin's helmet, F/M, Family, How Do I Tag, Mandalorian Culture (Star Wars), Misunderstandings, Mostly Platonic, Plans Go Wrong, Protective Cara Dune, Self-Discovery, Soft Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:34:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning070/pseuds/Lightning070
Summary: Today is the day.It’s been the day for three weeks now, but Din just keeps putting off what needs to happen. What was supposed to happen about a year ago, actually. He didn’t exactly postpone, back then; he just didn’t allow himself to even remotely take that possibility into consideration. It had not been a feasible thought, period.Now he thinks it might be.[In which Things Don't Go As Planned]
Relationships: Din Djarin & Cara Dune, Din Djarin/Cara Dune
Series: Tales of two Space Warriors and their Green Womprat [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091606
Comments: 37
Kudos: 256





	1. A very regrettable choice of words

**Author's Note:**

> That's *not* a title, what you've read up there: it's just a physical manifestation of my lack of inventiveness with titles.
> 
> This is based on the EU Mandalorian culture, mixed with the series’ one with a pinch (or maybe two) of headcanon. Don’t judge me, I needed fluff and awkwardness and dorky Din gives me life ♥
> 
> Leave a comment/kudos if you enjoy it, throw tomatoes if you don't! :D

Today is the day.

It’s been _the day_ for three weeks now, but Din just keeps putting off what he needs to happen. The _thing_ which was supposed to happen about a year ago, actually. He didn’t exactly postpone, back then; he just didn’t allow himself to even remotely take that possibility into consideration. It was not a feasible thought back then, period.

Now he _thinks_ it might be. He’s spent restless nights endlessly spinning that resolution in his head. He’s never had any trouble sleeping: he always drops like a rock at will, wherever he lays or stands, yet able to wake up at the slightest sign of unrest. Sleepless nights are something he’s never had to deal with, and it's a blessing for any bounty hunter. Now, for the past weeks, he's just been lying awake for hours, listening to the Child’s soft breathing and sleepy coos.

Just like he is right now.

It’s always so dark, in his bunk, that he allows himself to take off his helmet, even though there actually _is_ another living being in the same room with him – not that it should matter since he’s his son. He's allowed to see him. But that’s a complicated issue he doesn’t like to dwell on. He wishes nothing more than letting the Child know his face, but fears he would remember him all life long as the bounty hunter who let him get attached only to sever their bond. He doesn’t like to think about that particular future moment – and right now, he’s preoccupied enough with what’s going to happen today. He doesn't need other variables.

So for now, he just overzealously follows the rules. The Child doesn’t seem to have any developed night vision anyway, and he’s never dropped down from his hammock before, as if sensing it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. He’s unruly and stubborn in a lot of ways, but he does understand and respect that one tenet of his.

It's almost funny how _he_ is the one having difficulties in that particular matter, ever since Nevarro. A part of him is sure that the “living being” excuse is, well, _an excuse_. He’s broken the Creed. Not completely, maybe, but he hasn’t fully respected it either. He’s… _cracked it_ , somehow. He isn’t proud of it; it makes him feel tainted, unworthy, a pariah among his own people.

Exactly because his devotion is already into question, he has to do at least this _one_ thing right. He’s already treading on thin ice.

He steps out of his cot late in the morning with the Child in his arms, after a whole two hours of brooding, and finds the main cargo bay ramp opened. A warm spring breeze flows in, as it ruffles the high, yellow grass outside.

Cara sits on one of the two available stools, tending to her blaster with an array of maintenance instruments covering the small table beside her.

“’Morning, beskar-head. It's late, I was about to check on you, but I figured you needed the rest,” she says, lifting her eyes from her task and cracking a smile at him. “Slept well?”

“Better than usual,” he says, incapable of lying. That’s almost true, at least. "And thank you. I needed it."

She gives him a pointed look, but doesn’t investigate and goes back to cleaning her blaster. Din draws a silent breath, trying to steady himself. First of all, he needs some caf. Then a slice of uj cake, if his stomach manages to hold it down. He has all the time in the world to get it right.

It’s a quiet day: their hunt has paid well and they’re taking a couple of days of R&R on Lothal, hidden in the endless steppe and looking for some Jedi-related ruins that are supposed to be hidden here somewhere. They have no deadlines, no pressure – they just really needed a break.

He deposits the Child at Cara’s feet and trusts her to keep an eye on him while around the improvised workbench, knowing how fond the little one is of anything small enough to fit into his mouth. He then heads to the kitchenette and lights the portable tibanna stove, warming up some much-needed caf. He glimpses Cara as she shifts on her stool so she gives her back to him, and, as always, he can’t help but shoot her a grateful look, even though she can’t see him.

He pulls his helmet halfway up and quickly gulps down his drink, eventually giving up on eating anything solid for fear of not holding it down. He feels nauseous like he’s heading for a hunt he probably won’t be coming back from. He slides the helmet back into place and makes to put down the mug with enough force to make the sound audible for Cara, signaling she can now turn in his direction. A daily routine, at this point. He holds back.

 _Maybe_ … his free hand is still resting on the helmet’s top. Maybe… no, _no_. He presses the metal down so it’s fully donned, and then firmly taps the mug on the counter.

He's been _planning_ this. He’s been planning it for months, now, and he’s approached the whole matter as if it were a particularly dangerous and complicated bounty. He’s taken into account each and every variable and all the possible outcomes. He’s discarded a couple – a _dozen_ – of different ways to approach the subject. He still hasn’t come up with a fully functional one, so he just decided to whip that detail up on the spot.

It’s okay to leave a small part of improvisation in every plan – he keeps telling himself that – since things never actually go as planned. But one thing is set in beskar: he _won’t_ be making that decision alone. That’s just not how he wants it to play out.

 _Mild_ improvisation, then. What he’d do during a hunt, on the spur of the moment, he has to do now. And in some incomprehensible way, this could go worse than any failed hunt or lost quarry. Credits can be earned with the next job, wounds will heal up eventually, and death… well, there isn’t much room for thought after that anyway.

What he’s about to do here could reshuffle the cards of his existence, and either deal him a very foul hand or a pure sabacc. There’s a reason why he doesn’t often gamble... but here he is, doing exactly that. He doesn’t like these particular odds.

So he tries at least to _read_ the moment.

The slight jingling and squeaking of the maintenance tools fill the bay, as Cara concentrates on cleaning and fixing up her blaster after their last, animated hunt. It fell down from a considerable height, and the barrel is now slightly bent downwards. She knows her way around weapons, and the blaster looks in considerably better shape now.

The Child reaches for it every time he can, but Cara simply holds it far from his tiny hands, even though it’s evident how she sometimes fights an invisible force tugging at it. Din quietly smiles at that scene. It feels like home, like back on Nevarro – only warmer, with a family to live in it.

And all of a sudden, he feels even firmer in his decision, though anxiety is devouring him alive.

He approaches them and sits on the other stool, opposite from Cara. He rigidly braces an elbow on the table, as she starts rearranging the tools in the toolbox. She glances at him questioningly, and he knows he’s acting strangely. He’s quiet, but not _this_ quiet around them.

The Child loses interest in Cara’s maneuvers and toddles towards him, arms outstretched in an unmistakable request. Din picks him up, ruffling up his ear as he puts him down in his lap, and he starts his favorite game of trying to eat his sleeve's hem. It happens every time he's not donning his full armor – he just has his chest plate on out of habit. He sighs and disentangles the tissue from his grip. Cara smiles fondly at the both of them and stands up to put the blaster back on its rack and the box into its corner.

She then eyes the remaining uj cake. “You’re not eating that?” There’s hope in her voice.

Din just shrugs and gestures her to help herself – which she eagerly does. He can’t help but smile to himself. Typical Mandalorian food can be cooked by a blind and paralytic bantha and still be deemed edible – that’s the whole point. As long as it’s painfully spicy or sickly sweet and keeps you on your feet for another battle. He’s just inexplicably happy that she likes both extremes as much as he does – and the kid loves them as well, which isn’t really a surprise.

In its utter triviality, that's just another cog that has slid into place in the simple, functional machine of his life, now made a bit more complex by the latest additions. But Cara and the Child just _fit_ in it, as his helmet fits on his head. He feels a string of emotions building up in his throat as Cara sits down again across from him, and he holds the Child tighter, eliciting a content chirp from him.

“Can I ask you something?” he asks, dumbly, and he already knows he’s opened the game the wrong way, because Cara gives him that mischievous smirk of hers.

“As long as it isn’t something I’ll regret answering,” she says, twisting his words like she loves to do, just to baffle him.

Din wets his lips, unseen, and feels exposed despite the beskar. He’s thrown a punch, blindly, and let his guard down for the repost. Stupid. Stupid and reckless. He’s ruining this.

“Oh boy, it _is_ something I’ll regret answering,” Cara smiles at his silence, her eyes crinkling up. “C’mon, shoot. As long as it’s child-friendly.”

His thought-out plan is already in shreds, and it’s not even Cara’s fault. Cara is just being Cara, oblivious to the turmoil agitating his head. Maybe it’s just not the moment. Maybe he’s rushing things. Maybe he doesn’t really _want_ to do it– _liar_ , a part of him tuts.

“Actually, it can wait,” he says as nonchalantly as he can, and busies himself with the Child, who’s fussing all over him for attention. He picks him up and cradles him in the nook between his chest plate and helmet, knowing he loves to huddle there, as close to him as the armor will let him.

He also knows he can _feel_ how upset he is – Din doesn’t quite understand how, but he can. And Cara knows it, apparently, because she looks intently at the kid, who’s now put up a somber, almost questioning expression, and then back at him. Din is always astounded at how precisely she can find and meet his eyes, even beyond the beskar.

“You know I’m joking, and you can talk to me, right?”

Din nods aloofly and turns his attention to the Child. He decides that the new safest plan, at least for now, is _retreat._ But his mouth has other, less conventional intentions, and talks before he can think. It improvises for him in the worst possible way:

“I want you to take my helmet off.”

And, just like that, his every last hope of getting this right is irremediably shattered.


	2. Home, family, and other utterly terrifying words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, but here you are!
> 
> It's self-indulgent as hell and I'm (proudly) aware of it! I make them suffer enough in my more serious stories, so I decided to give them a break. Just enjoy the fluff and leave a comment if you want ♥
> 
> Thank you for the amazing feedback on the previous chapter!

His words still hover like an echo in the cargo bay, as if they kept repeating themselves in an endless loop. Cara is staring at him, gobsmacked like she just received a direct punch in the face.

Din is frozen on the spot, the kid still in his arms, a cramp steadily enveloping his stomach. What the _osik_ has he just blurted out? He got the whole phrasing wrong, too. It wasn’t supposed to sound like an _order_ , dank farrik.

He dares not to raise his gaze, as bricks of silence stack up between him and Cara. Just then, the Child garbles something and gleefully tugs at the hem of his helmet with a sharp ting, almost making him flinch. How in Malachor did he _even_ –

“I’m sorry, you _what?_ ”

Din’s face goes hotter than Nevarro’s lava plains. He doesn’t move his head, just his eyes, and when he looks at her in the face he’s confronted with a mixture of disbelief, confusion and… _dejection?_ What’s that tinge of sadness in her eyes supposed to be? 

She then arches a brow, urging a direct answer, and that sends his stomach plummeting into the pit of anxiety he’s been trying to skirt around up until now. He hasn't been so petrified since his near-death experience with the mudhorn – it’s like something's crunching his brain with icy fangs, and he only manages to conjure a single thought: _back-up plan, now._

He slowly, stiffly stands up, every joint in his body letting out an outraged protest, ignoring Cara’s dismayed look. He walks to the bunk, puts the Child back in his hammock and then shuts the door, silently apologizing to him – he pouts accusingly, which makes him feel even worse. He takes a deep breath before sitting back in his seat, feeling frozen in carbonite and not much more flexible than any quarry he’s ever put into it. 

Cara seems to be experiencing the same, since she still hasn’t moved a muscle. She won’t say another word and just stares at him with that jumble of contrasting emotions scrawled on her face. It appears that a hint of an incredulous, nervous smile is trying to draw a dimple in her cheeks, but her eyes remain terribly serious, like shreds of onyx digging into him.

“I said that you can take off my helmet,” he tries to rephrase, more firmly, but also more gently this time. 

He’s about to add something, explain how he came to that request, but his mouth seals shut and stops working altogether when he sees the flare of discontent that crosses her face, making her lips tense in a straight line.

“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms and legs. Is she being defensive, now? Shouldn’t _he_ be the one doing that? He’s at a loss. And this isn’t going as planned. “Okay, you’re… you’re _not_ joking, are you?”

Din, at this point, can’t help but scoff in irritation. His jaw clenches. Like he’d _ever_ joke about it. “I am not.” He draws every word out with sharp clarity, then makes an effort to mellow his tone: “And I’m just saying you _can_. You have no obligation to–”

“Well, you _don’t_ either,” she cuts him off, so bluntly he can almost feel the hit on the beskar.

Disappointment fills Din’s body like an icy waterfall, washing away every other feeling.

He finds himself discreetly fretting – pulling and pinching the tip of his gloves. He knows he should zip it before he can make it worse – he’s not used to talking, that’s just not his strong suit, unless there’s bargaining going on. That’s why he always chops his sentences down to their indispensable core. It works with clients and quarries alike. Only, that’s not really the best idea when having an argument with a close one, as he proceeds to confirm with his next, great choice of words:

“I do, actually.” He almost bites his tongue off – _you shabla di’kut_.

An undisrupted flow of profanities fills his usually pristine mind. That’s _not_ what he meant. Is his beskar-brain _actively_ trying to screw this up? He feels a noose of silence strangle any other word he’d want to voice out, in fear of just making it worse and worse. He’s so upset with himself he feels the temptation of switching off the vocoder and just let out a vexed scream, inaudible from the outside.

Cara is just staring wordless at him, her mouth slightly open and forming a dismayed, ever-growing downwards crescent. Then she recomposes herself: she clamps her lips and stands up abruptly, with a deep frown creasing her otherwise smooth forehead. She nods stiffly and looks like she’s bottling up an ocean of emotions and words that could erupt at any moment like a cask of sparkling spotchka. She doesn’t let them and puts up a fake smile instead. It looks so out of place, compared to her usually warm, yet tongue-in-cheek ones.

“Look, I’m just pretending this never happened.”

He could swear his chest plate just shattered with a high, clinking note. Maybe it isn’t his chest plate, and rather what’s enclosed right beneath it, but he’s never been one for poetic expressions. His heart is _not_ fine, though, judging by its now syncopated rhythm. _What?_ He thinks, almost angrily, his thoughts in complete disarray like a colony of panicked Jawas.

“What?” he says, even if he didn’t mean to – like so many other things today – but it comes out as an almost hiccupped whisper. “I don’ understand, what–”

“I’m making this clear for the future,” she firmly cuts him off, despite her voice being unusually brittle, in a way that drenches him with sudden guilt. “I already _know_ you. You’re Din Djarin, you’re a Mandalorian, you’re the most skilled warrior and the most trustworthy person I’ve ever met, and you’re my partner. I don’t _need_ to see your face. I never did, I never _wanted_ to. I thought you knew this.”

Din, beyond a pang hitting his sternum in an inexplicable pleasant way, feels the realization dawn on him, glaring as the midday sun outside. And knows he’s definitely chosen the wrong strategy if he’s even chosen one at all. He just blindly went down the first path that opened in front of him, too scared to really look ahead or search for another one. He’s so single-minded, sometimes, that he forgets to look around. Just as he did in front of the mudhorn, stoically accepting his death even though there might have been another way out.

“I know. But it doesn’t change anything.” His hand presses instinctively against his chest plate, and those few, simple words plaster a look of pure bewilderment on her face. “Cara, I don’t want to do it because I feel _pressured_. You don’t have a role in– you _do_ have a role; it just _isn’t_ that one. It’s not something you can _force_ me to do. You never could.”

She looks taken aback, now, and her eyes dart around his visor like she’s _really_ trying to see beyond it for the first time. “You’ve been faithful to your Creed since you were a child. Why are you willing to show your face all of a sudden, if I don’t have _anything_ to do with it? Honestly,” she urges him, eyes transfixed into his.

“You know I don’t lie,” he replies, a bit offended by that last remark. Then he sighs, more deeply than he ever has. “Can we start over and _really_ pretend this didn’t happen? I didn’t mean to break it to you like this,” he asks then, careful in observing how Cara’s expression remains wary, but ever less so as he keeps on talking. 

She seems relieved, now, and only now can he sense the plain, vivid worry she was radiating. He feels almost touched by her concern, but mainly guilty for how he made her doubt of herself.

She bites her lip and leans against the wall, arms crossed on her cuirass. “I’m listening.”

He then takes a moment to answer, clenching his fingers, scratching at the worn-out orange leather of his gloves, picking at their seams. It’s so easy to _feel_ the whys, and yet so hard to explain them to others. He’s never had to, actually. Everyone just wants to take a peek under the beskar: they don’t care about _why_ he wears it. Or they see it as a boundary, a constriction. Something that’s been imposed onto him like a restraining bolt on a droid. They never try to see it as a choice, and they are blind to all the _actual_ choices it offers him. Like the one he’s making now.

As far as he knows, Cara has never seen it that way – it’s like he never had an unremovable helmet on his head in the first place. She's never questioned his beliefs, nor has she ever inquired about them, even though he could tell her polite curiosity from time to time. But demanding she understands all the nuances hidden behind it would be presumptuous. 

And he _knew_ just asking her out of the blue would cause an unpredictable reaction, because he knew Cara could think he was breaking the Creed _because_ of her.

That’s exactly why he’s been planning this, and why his head has felt a crowded mess of thoughts for the last weeks. There were so many things he needed to explain before actually asking her to do it.

He sighs audibly. _Nothing_ according to plan, as usual. But now he has the chance to make this right, and he tries not to slip on his words again:

“First of all, the tenet isn’t about letting someone _see_ your face. It’s not an… identity issue. Though of course, we want our faces to be unknown,” he says then, trying to be as clear and factual as possible. That’s how the whole discussion was supposed to begin anyway. “It’s the _gesture_ that matters. This means not dishonoring ourselves by being defeated and having the helmet removed by force. And not taking it off lightheartedly and disrespecting what it represents – our Creed, our Way, our people.” He pauses again, relaxing his hands, his gaze hooked into hers. “I’m _not_ taking this lightheartedly. I’ve not been defeated. And I’m _choosing_ to do it out of my own free will, in accordance with the Creed’s tenets.”

Cara seems to be holding her breath – her face is tense, her cheeks strained. She just nods once, then hesitantly sits down, letting out a wavering breath.

“Okay. Okay, that’s…” she inhales again, her eyes closing briefly. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I... panicked. I really thought I had somehow forced you to do it. Into thinking that you _had_ to since we travel and live together. it crossed my mind that I’m not the most accommodating person in the Galaxy. That I might have… _pressured_ you to do it.”

“You _led_ me to it,” he replies, eliciting a worried glance, and quickly adds: “It isn't a bad thing. On the contrary. I wouldn’t let it happen if I wasn’t absolutely sure of it.”

“Why _now_ , then?” Cara asks, and her eyebrows knit in a still puzzled expression.

Din steels himself. Here it is: the hidden engine that has been sputtering and chugging along with his indecisive yet resolute thoughts, belching out clouds of black smoke at every inconsistency and contradiction with the Creed, bringing him to this crossroads.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he says, his voice just shy of a murmur.

She waits for him to go on, but he's losing control over his mouth and thoughts again. It would all be so much easier if he could just _show_ her somehow. Or if he could deliver one of the many, all-encompassing sayings in Mando'a that don't need any further explanation to go along with them. They just seal any deal and function on their own, they shape reality and relationships in such few words it almost seems ridiculous. But that isn’t an option now, even though they tingle on the tip of his tongue.

“How long?” she inquires then, in an encouraging tone.

He wishes he could avoid the question, but there’s no way he can lie without lying as he usually does. “Since Nevarro. When I almost–” he pauses, feeling a phantom pain on his nape and in his right ear. “You know when.”

She knows when. He can still feel her weight shielding him from the scorching heat and flames blazing in the cantina. He can still see the look of horror on her face as she noticed his blood smeared on her hand.

“That’s… quite a long time.”

“Yes,” he just says, with all those unspoken memories lingering between them. He knows he hasn’t answered her question yet. The _why_. “I’ve been planning since then the _how_. This isn’t really going as I had pictured.”

A guilty shadow flashes on Cara’s face.

“When has a plan _ever_ worked out as it should have?” she smiles softly, prompting his lips to ever so lightly curl along with hers. “I've been the unforeseen in yours, I suppose.” 

“You often are,” he replies, and he means it in the best possible way. He knows she can feel his smile.

“Like on Sorgan?” she preens, tilting her head in a smug move. “When I _unforeseeably_ knocked you out?”

“I knocked you out _too_ ,” he retorts, and the outraged pride in his voice is not even remotely believable.

“That’s open to debate. But maybe this time I should just let you proceed according to _your_ plan,” she adds, in a half-jokingly, half-apologetic tone.

“Maybe,” he wavers, stumbling upon his own words leading him closer and closer to the _moment_ he’s been fearing and anticipating for so long.

Cara seems to sense his indecision and just scoots a bit closer to him, an arm resting on the table as she intently stares at him. “I’m still listening.”

He makes to talk, then shuts his mouth again, pondering what he’s about to say. But there’s not much he can do wrong at this point. That’s the worst part: whatever her reaction is going to be, he only will have a small role in it. He'll just have to accept it.

“There’s actually not much to say,” he starts, and that’s only a half-lie. “Family is the most important part of a Mandalorian’s life.” He pauses and sees how that’s not what she was expecting to hear _at all_. But she’s hanging onto his every word. So he goes on, more confident than ever, as those concepts have been soldered into his beskar since he was a little kid: “It all revolves around it. We fight for it, we protect it, we raise it, and are raised by it as our own even when it isn’t. It’s not just about being relatives or married. Family bonds are not dictated by blood or conventions. We _choose_ them and nurture them,” He looks briefly at the Child’s compartment, then back at her, meeting her eyes, and finally voicing those heavy, yet wonderfully light words he’s been keeping in his ribcage for months: “You _are_ family, to me. In… more ways than I can explain.”

He has no idea where that last part came from, but it’s too late to take it back, and he isn’t sure he even wants to. And he takes him a moment to realize what he’s seeing. He has to double-check because he can’t really believe Cara’s eyes are _shimmering_ , but they unmistakably are. She straightens herself and draws in a quick, wet breath, though a soft smile graces her lips as she waits for him to finish.

“We are allowed to reveal our face to our family members. And I’d like to do that with you. If you’ll let me.” _If you feel the same_ , he doesn’t say, but he’s sure it comes across anyway.

She shakes her head, and that’s not a _no_. Just Cara Dune, veteran shock-trooper, fierce warrior and loyal comrade trying to fight emotions, something you can’t really be trained to do on a battlefield. He understands it all too well.

Then her expression darkens, ever so lightly it could’ve just been a passing shadow, but it still alarms him.

“Something wrong?” he manages to say around a sudden knot in his throat.

She shrugs, and her gaze doesn’t meet his own, unusually so. “I’m just wondering what it was that I did to earn this. It’s just… unexpected in the best possible way and I can’t really wrap my mind around your _reasons_.”

Din almost has to laugh. Great Mandalore, isn’t it _obvious?_ “You knocked me out. That’s reason enough,” he tries to joke, his throat tight, refusing to recount each and every real reason that brought him right where he is right now.

Right. _Here_ he is. To the point where _his helmet comes off_.

“You admit it, then,” she teases him, a smirk on her face among her now almost invisible tears, just a glistening veil over her black eyes. “And that will be enough,” she agrees then, gracefully sparing him the effort of using more words than he’s ever used in his whole life.

There’s a silence, after that statement. Or at least there would be if his heart would stop exploding in his ears with each beat, bursting a dozen blood vessels along with it. His fingertips are jittery with unadulterated fear. The irrational kind, not the one who’s a welcome friend in times of danger.

It strangles him in its grip, stronger than ever. He can feel his heart jump random beats and throb in his throat. He huffs a breath out, feeling a hot wave scald his face and ears at the realization of what’s now imminent. And he’s willingly thrown himself into this. He can’t back up now. Cara might let him live it down, but he wouldn’t, ever.

And his face, in this exact moment, is definitely not a sight to behold. Not for the right reasons, at least. He knows his features are a mess of tension, cramps, and nervous twitches; and his eyes are probably wide as a protocol droid’s. His hair is a mess as always and, Great Mandalore, he’s sweating too.

He has a fleeting thought nagging him about how he actually _looks_ as if that has anything to do with the situation at hand. But he hasn’t shown his face to anyone in more years than he can count, and his mother’s sweet words about his looks aren’t exactly an _objective_ judgment.

He’s no Gungan, at least. That’ll be enough. He hopes.

“So…” she prompts, discreetly.

“Yes,” he says, and it feels a _higher_ yes, a confirmation to all his purposes. He stands up, gesturing her to do the same, then kneels on the floor, sitting on his heels, palms resting on his thighs in the typical Mandalorian stance. Cara follows suit and takes place in front of him, her knees just brushing his own.

That will do. He’s beaten around the bush long enough. But today he’s proved that the brutally straightforward Mandalorian ways only work with other Mandalorians.

He can still clearly remember his own shock when his mother adopted him out of the blue, uttering the ritual words during an everyday walk, with the same stolidity she’d use to comment on the weather. He wouldn’t have felt happier than if she threw a whole, massive celebration to announce it to every single being in the Galaxy. It was its spontaneity that made it so precious, the way it was such a normal, accustomed thought that it needn’t anything else than to be voiced out.

He wishes he’d done the same with Cara. With better words than _take my helmet off_ … but things have their way of working out in the end. There’s no grandeur in what they’re doing, after all: just sitting in their home, waiting to look each other in the eye.

He musters his courage and slightly bows his head towards her, in a clear invite. She slowly, but surely takes a hold of his helmet with both hands, where his cheeks would be. He feels the pressure on his face, or he thinks he feels it on his second skin. She stops, and he knows she can sense his tension; she’s giving him time. His breath evens out, even though his heart keeps thumping with the full force of a battle drum.

“Is it part of the ritual too?”

“What?”

“That I have to take it off for you.”

Din’s mouth becomes as dry as the Sea of Dunes. He struggles with his own tongue, trying to keep a steady voice. “No. I just wanted it to be you,” he eventually says, head still bowed.

She hides her surprise behind a faint smile, but he can see she’s taken aback by that confession. He hadn’t really mused about any other possibility, to be honest. It simply felt like the only right one. Anything else just felt _off_ , unfair to her or himself. They both had to do it willingly. Just taking it off himself wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t be a shared choice – it would be _his_ choice to let her see him. He has no idea how to convert those thoughts into words, so he just doesn’t, and hopes she will understand anyway.

“Even if I never wanted to do it.”

“Exactly because you never wanted to.”

“Even if I’m not a Mandalorian.”

Din pauses. That’s a defect of form he hasn’t quite been able to solve yet. He’s been duly educated to the Creed since he was a boy, but he can’t recall any specification about that particular detail. Maybe it goes without saying? Cara is technically an _aruetii_ , an outsider to the Creed and Mandalorian people. And he’s supposed to be distrustful towards them, this much he’s sure of. 

But then, if they’re allowed to choose their own bonds… they do found their culture on adoption and willing conversion, after all. However, he doubts Cara has any intention of taking the beskar. He's aware that he’s probably _cracking_ the rules again. But he’s come up with an answer so incontrovertible, it’s almost impossible to ignore. And again, it just feels like the right one.

“You’re _mandokarla_ enough,” he states then, carefully spelling out that word that predictably paints a veil of perplexity on her face, even though its root is clear. “It means you have the spirit of a Mandalorian, even though you aren’t one.”

“Because… I’m a skilled warrior?” she asks, almost hesitant, as if she were not sure she should inquire about that. Din slightly shakes his head, and her hands brush against the beskar.

“Because you’re tenacious and loyal. You cherish life and yet you’re willing to lay it down for the ones you care about. This doesn’t need a helmet to be acknowledged as part of the Way of the Mandalore.”

Cara just quietly smiles, and maybe she’s even flattered by his point-on description of her. She just adjusts her palms on the beskar, taking in a breath, and it feels like a caress.

“I just wanted to make sure you were sure about this,” she offers then, almost coyly, and he feels an imperceptible upward pull on the helmet that tugs his heart along with it.

He gently grips her wrist, stopping her every movement.

“This _has_ to be mutual. You don’t have to do it for me. And you can tell me if I’m overstepping some…” he fights to find the right word, “… _boundary_.”

She gives him a sly smile. “You definitely are… it’s just not _my_ boundary.” Then she turns serious, almost stern. “I agree with everything you’ve said so far. About family not being tied to bloodlines, and how we’ve come to trust each other. How I _am_ willing to lay my life for you and the kid. And about home being more than a physical concept… you _know_ I can relate to that.”

Din just tightens his grip, feeling a wave of anguish for her lost planet.

“I just never thought it possible to find another one at this point, but you proved me wrong. You and that green womprat of yours,” she finishes, letting a gleeful note slip through her somber words, lightning up her eyes.

He can see _her_ , now. Her essence, the way her joy blends with a tinge of mournful memories and flows in a bittersweet, soothing feeling encompassing them both. They have a word for it: _aay’han_ – celebration and remembrance, all at once. Being content to be alive, even though others are dead – and remembering them right then, to make them feel part of life and its continuation. It’s a concept so intertwined and ingrained with his very Mandalorian soul that he’d never thought to find it in another person. 

And for the first time in all these weeks, all doubts vanish away, leaving him with the pristine certainty of his choice’s righteousness.

“You have found it.”

And with that, he lets go of her wrists. He rests his palms on his thighs and his head in her hands, trusting her completely. He doesn’t say a word, just gives her an imperceptible nod. _Go_.

And then it’s happening.

The air crumples into his lungs as he feels the helmet slowly slide upwards, brushing his cheeks and ruffling his hair. A gust of warm wind brushes his face and he realizes he’s closed his eyes. He opens them, slowly, almost squinting.

Cara is looking at him. Obviously. And there’s not the slightest hint of surprise or rejection on her face. Just a quiet curiosity that makes her eyes linger in his own as soon as he opens them. He finds out it’s much more difficult to hold someone’s gaze without a visor in between.

He gulps down and inhales a deep breath, briefly closes his eyes again, then looks back at her, longer this time. _Deeper_. He calms down, little by little, and he knows it’s just been a few seconds, but they weigh on him like a whole hour. He almost wishes he could abandon his body for a while, letting those moments pass on without him; and he wants to live them to the fullest at the same time, basking in Cara’s gaze as she takes in his face. First as a whole, then mapping its every detail. 

He tries to relax, and he knows he’s miserably failing, knows his hair is disheveled, knows he has the skittish look of a frightened animal because he's always been like that, outside the beskar. His eyes won’t meet Cara’s for more than a split second and he has the burning urge to reach for his face. He grips his pants and doesn’t.

“I’d say ‘nice to meet you’, but I feel like I’ve known you for this whole time,” she finally says, trying to joke the tension off as usual, but with the most sincere tone she can muster. Her hands rest on his helmet, almost cradling it. It’s so weird seeing it detached from him and in someone else’s grip, but it doesn't unsettle him in a negative way.

She’s smiling softly, her lips following a tender curve he hasn’t quite seen on her face yet. She radiates pure bliss, and as soon as he realizes that, he feels his own lips pull into a tentative smile as well.

“Is this what you expected?” he can’t refrain from asking and, as he talks, Cara’s eyes flicker across his face in a sudden display of confusion, then set on his mouth.

_Right_. His real voice. That’s another first for her as well. He hopes it doesn’t sound too husky, since it feels like it hasn’t tasted a drop of water in a year. He tries to swallow, waiting for an answer.

“You’re… awfully close to how I pictured you,” she finally says, with a hint of disbelief as she chooses her every word. “I imagined you way paler, though. Like, Muun-pale.”

He chuckles with his lips closed, only drawing a low rumble from his chest. “I can’t blame you,” he says then, with a glance at his impenetrable helmet. He’s getting _curious_ now, with the fear slowly melting away as Cara’s reaction is one of simple, genuine surprise and curiosity as well. Not a hint of distaste or mistrust crosses her eyes. And he's not crumbling apart as he'd expected to do. “Anything else?”

She raises an eyebrows, and he can almost read her mind before she speaks. “You’re actually _enjoying_ this.”

“Maybe?” he frowns, asking himself if it’s unpolite to pry on her thoughts about him, and if it’s okay to enjoy this moment altogether. Since when is _cracking the rules_ so enjoyable? “Speak your mind, I won’t get offended.”

“Well, you asked for it,” she warns him. “I thought you had a _straight_ nose,” she says then without even trying to sugarcoat it, and she can’t help but smirk a little, both an apology and a display of innocent amusement. “I can see I was wrong.”

He holds back a sigh, then puffs it out in a stifled laugh. “I broke it five times. Or maybe six. I don’t really keep track anymore,” he shrugs, feeling the faint scar on the bridge of his nose tensing slightly as he speaks.

“Then… I don’t know. I supposed you had dark hair, somehow. It just felt right. About this length… the curls are a surprise. So, with dark hair, dark eyes were just an educated guess. I didn’t expect the moustache, to be honest, but I knew you had to have some facial hair.”

Din cocks his head questioningly, as his brows furrow. “How so?”

“You don’t take much time in the bathroom, normally, but sometimes you take more time than usual, and I don’t think you’re powdering your nose,” she teases him, and he blatantly rolls his eyes, now that she can see him – that’s a gesture he hasn’t done in decades and it almost feels weird on his face. “So you don’t shave every day, but you don’t keep a beard either.”

Din can’t help but raise his eyebrows, genuinely impressed. “It itches under the helmet,” he sheepishly offers as an unnecessary explanation. “I… I didn’t think you’d pay so much attention to me.”

He can swear to see a faint, pinkish hue crossing Cara’s cheekbones, and her eyes become evasive. “You just become much more aware of the details when you don’t have a face to work with.”

Din lowers his gaze, but he's smiling, though a tad guiltily. Another pause lazily and comfortably stretches between them, as they just stare each other down, as if trying out how that actually works. And it works, simple as that.

He doesn’t waver in the least, when he speaks the words just a few moments later: “ _Ni kar’tayl gai sa’aliit_ ,” he pauses, then slightly tilts his head forward, never losing contact with her eyes. “This makes it official.”

Cara blinks, surprised. “Just like that?”

Din huffs in amusement. “We’re practical people. I could’ve just said it before and it would’ve sufficed, as long as you agreed. If you say the words too, we’re formally bound together by Mandalorian law.”

She tilts her head back, looking him from slits in that suspicious look of hers. “Wait, _bound_ _together?_ Did I… _miss_ something?”

Din feels his face go slack at the realization, and he can’t help his eyes widening with panic. He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, speechless, then yanks his voice out of his throat: “Bound together _as family_. There’s… there’s another vow for… for _other_ bonds,” he quickly says, not even daring to fully phrase it out – and he can’t believe he’s stammering, _dank farrik_.

She seems relieved. “Good. Wouldn’t wanna get there too fast,” she says then with a shrug, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

_Wait, what?_

“So, what does it mean?” she asks then, without the blink of an eye. Maybe she _is_ Mandalorian after all.

Din's brain is still stuck on the previous statement, but he forcefully kickstarts it again before it comes to an halt and leaves him there, jostling with words and emotions he can’t even put a name on. He’s aware of the whole array of expressions that have flashed on his face in that split second, but he can’t do much to hide them, so he just tries to concentrate on her question – the answer to which, really, isn’t helping _in the least_.

“Roughly, ‘I know you as family’,” he says, evasively. It literally means _I hold you in my heart as family_ , but he doesn’t think it’s a good idea to get lost in semantics.

“ _Ni kar’tayl gai sa’aliit_ ,” she repeats then, slowly, with a funny accent that makes him smile, but he holds back his amusement. He doesn’t want to spoil the moment.

He rests his eyes into hers, contentedness filling up his chest. She’s close, but she doesn’t make any move to get closer, hands still duly kept on his helmet. He appreciates it. A part of him desperately wants to feel her touch against his skin; another one thinks he’ll burst into flames if she as much as brushes his finger. And yet, he’s longing for it.

His eyes linger on her fingers, now tucked under his helmet’s hem, and he quickly averts them, swallowing the lump in his throat. She notices it anyway – _of course she does_ – and next thing he knows, she reaches out for his hand, still shielded by his thick gloves. He glances at her, then at their hands, and he has no idea how she can read him so well, even though she always did, even with a helmet on.

He gently squeezes her hand, feeling her warm eyes embracing him whole even through the armor, her calm gaze quelling his nervousness.

He carefully takes her hand, tentatively guiding it to his face. She lets him, following his movement without trying to anticipate it or rush it. Until her fingertips brush against his cheek.

It’s as if all his touch receptors wake up at once, sizzling with an outburst of sensations. It’s overwhelmingly beautiful, so much it almost hurts as he’d imagined – and yet he doesn’t want it to end. He closes his eyes, drunk with her touch, with a feeling he'd almost forgotten for good. Her other hand spontaneously comes to rest on his other cheek, and he can feel her faint smile as she does.

“Is this okay?” she asks, just a tinge of doubt smearing her voice.

He exhales. He’s been missing on so many things for so long. That thought almost _shatters_ the Creed, before remembering that he’s _choosing_ this. He’s chosen a long ago already when he decided that the life of a child was worth ten times his word and honor. He’s been choosing again and again since then, and he still hasn’t regretted it once. He’s _not_ regretting this. He sighs.

“Yes,” he murmurs against her skin, then lifting his eyes into hers. They tell him all he needs to know.

This is _still_ the Way, and wherever it may lead them, they'll walk it together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to tell you that I haven't forgotten about the Child. But given Din's thought about him in the previous chapter, that would be a much more serious matter, and it begs for its own development. Yup, you heard me :D
> 
> *The "family adoption vow" is totally made up by me. The standard adoption for children goes "Ni kar'tayl gai sa'ad", so I just switched "ad" – son with "aliit" – family. And it *actually* means "to hold into your heart", because Mandos are old saps.
> 
> **Bonus: the mention of Din's scar/broken nose is totally a reference to Pedro Pascal cutting his nose open when he walked into a piece of plywood on set. Sorry not sorry ♥

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, I'm ending it like this... so, yeah, here is your license to kill ♥
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this first chapter, the update is on its way!


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